Yiffins
by cornwallace
Summary: Here thar be yiffins.


Sonic wraps his arms around Amy, pulling her in close from the upright sitting position hard against his body. His throbbing member grinding needily against her sopping wet opening. He rolls her over, swiftly but gently onto her back, his front still pressed hard against hers, her legs still straddling his waist. Their noses touching, eyes locked in an eternal staring contest battle. The first one who blinks here clearly doesn't love the other nearly as much, but they still love them a lot, or something. Lips grazing against lips, soft skin teasing the promise of a kiss and taking it away as Sonic's face gently glides across her cheek and p to her left ear. He nibbles lovingly, his hot, wet breath pelting against her, sending shivers down her spine. He breathes his request of love, passion and need directly into her soul and she blinks a few times, confused.

"Sonic," she squeaks out, seemingly concerned. "What's a donkey punch?" 

* * *

**Yiffins**

* * *

"Ohhhhhhhh yeah," Robotnik says, grinding his greased thumb against his slippery helmet. "This is starting to get interesting."

With his free hand, he grabs the microwave bean and cheese burrito off his desk and he takes a messy bite, leaving remnants of hand lotion, bean juice and cheese on his epic red mustache. He drops the burrito next to his keyboard and plops another glob of hand cream into his smelly palm.

Dr. Ivo Robotnik is genuinely enjoying himself for the first time in a very good while. He's on his third microwavable burrito, he's throbbing with passion over the furries he's watching diddle each other, and he has something of a scat fetish, but only from a good, safe distance. The words 'donkey punch' echo in his mind, and he's hoping against hope that if Amy doesn't consent, Sonic takes it by force.

It's almost preferable that way, honestly. And by almost, I of course mean it is. A donkey punch is so much better when the hedgehog is crying.

But that's when trouble begins brewing in the old man's stomach.

It all starts off as the promise of an innocent fart, but as he let it loose, it becomes disturbingly clear that more sinister bodily functions are afoot. Instead of wind breaking free, sludge worked itself into the unsuspecting victim's underwear with a pppppptthhhhhhhhhhh.

His eyes widen. Someone was knocking at the back door, and they came bearing some baaaaaaaad news.

"Snively," he says, pushing the button on his console.

No response. He pushed it again.

"Snively, I need help."

No response.  
Robotnik is frightened and angry, but mostly angry. With a little effort, he clenches his buttcheeks and attempts to stand, but to no avail.

He falls back into his chair with an ever-so-slight *squish*.

His eyes widen, once again. The panic button has been pushed. The alarms sounding in his head, the sweat pouring down his face like one of those wall mounted fountains you see by the front door in rich white people's houses. Normally this sort of imagery would prompt him to consider putting one up in his office, but not this time. This time, there's only one thing running back and forth through his head over and over and over again.

"Think, Robotnik, THINK. How am I gonna get out of this? How am I going to get ME out of THIS?"

Acting fast, Robotnik changes the frequency on the two way communicator with the dial on his console.

He finishes off his burrito and wipes his mustache off with the sleeve of his jacket before pressing the button.

"Scratch. Grounder. What's your twenty?"

"Twenty, sir?" Scratch's high-pitched voice replies through the crackling of the radio.

"I aint got twenty-a nothin', boss," Grounder interjects.

"Twenty. Like, location. Where the fuck are you? And why the fuck are you so stupid?"

"Life's hard when you're programmed stupid, boss," Grounder says.

Robotnik grinds his teeth and rubs his temples. No way in fuckshit is he taking responsibility for this level of idiocy. He's a goddamn genius and should be treated like one. He pushes the talk button again.

"Where. The. Fuck. Are. You?" he demands through clenched teeth.

"We're in The Great Forest, boss," Scratch says, thinking he knows everything in the world. "Trying to capture the effeminate little fox while Sonic and Sally are busy trying to sex each other up!"

"Amy."

"Amy?"

"Nobody cares about Sally anymore, it's Amy he's sexing up."

"Uh, yeah boss. While Sonic and Amy are, uh. Bumping uglies!"

"There's nothing ugly about a donkey punch, Scratch. Send me your coordinates, I'll see if I have a Flying Eye Spy in the area."

Robotnik zips up and reconsiders the tongue twister of a name he gave his flying cameras as he scrapes the excess lotion off his hand and onto the corner of his desk He takes a sip from his Big Gulp of diet Energy Drink and the coordinates pop up on his screen with a chirping notification sound.

Robotnik doesn't button his pants because he can't and he's also in denial.

He checks to see if any spybots are in the area. There are. While he waits for the live feed, he checks on Sonic and Amy. Sonic's rod is buried a good seven inches deep in Amy's puckering and whining asshole. She's begging him to go slower, but his pace picks up, his nature dictating that he's gotta go fast. Gotta go fast. Gotta go faster, faster faster faster faster. Sonic sex.

I did a thing. Huhuhuhuhuh.

The sun's going down, but that doesn't matter, does it? Or does it? I dunno. I'm no writer. But I have seen one on television, I think.

Kekekekekekeke.

The picture of Scratch and Grounder maximizes automatically as they march forward through The Great Forest. Robotnik wonders to himself why he bothered to wait for the video feed.

"Scratch. Grounder. You are to abort the mission."

"Abort?" Grounder asks, dumbly.

"Abort like a stinky mistake. Your new job is to track down and find Snively and put the plugs to him. Hard-style."

His eyes flick upward just quickly enough to catch a bronze shower at the displeasure of a screaming and crying Amy Rose. That's when Scratch speaks up.

"You, uh, sure boss? We're almost there and we might as well-"

"This is way more important," Robotnik says, sipping his Big Gulp. "That man needs the plugs. I've been insulted and I've been insulted. You put the plugs to him! And you put the pugs in him! Goddamnit."

Robotnik hangs up and it makes him tingly. Not like, in a good way, or even in a bad way. It just tingles a bit. Just a little bit.

Now that he has his assurance that Snively will be punished for his insubordination, he can safely plot his next move.

His eyes dart up the huge monitor as he maximizes the screen with Sonic in mid-transformation, claws tearing through his white gloves, his small frame expanding in bulk, fangs leaking drool from his slack maw.

A frightened Amy, frozen in fear on a shit covered picnic blanket stares up at the spectacle. Her gaping mouth and wide, scared eyes make Robotnik's pants tighten. His stomach gurgles.

Robotnik is suffering as the newly transformed werehog picks the motionless Amy us abover his head and tears her in half, catching her intestines as they fall into his chomping jaws, licking his lips as he bites down on her lower half hips first, the crunching bones between his teeth as he drops her screaming upper half into a pile of her own sick as she wails in agonizing pain. Her twitching legs, dangling from his bloody pie-hole.

"Oh, god, this is so worth it," Robotnik says.

A sudden shot to the gut like a bullet snaps Robotnik out of his daze and reminds him of his mission. With effort, he stands, and his ass knocks back his rolly chair he was sitting in back a good three or four feet. Slowly.

The egg-shaped man waddles forward awkwardly. You know the waddle. Like any misstep you take will result in a loaded pants. And your pants is the last thing you want loaded. (with poop)

Robotnik double-taps the door button in a fit of angry panic and terrified excitement. This means the door opens quickly and closes. This makes Robotnik whine like a wounded puppy before pressing the button and carefully only once, and waiting patiently for it to open.

When it does, he scoots nervously across the threshold and dashes as soon as he sees the door to the men's room across the hallway. The egg-shaped man suddenly comes to a screeching halt when he reads the last three words in the world that he wanted to read at exactly this moment, ever.

"What the FUCK do you MEAN OUT OF ORDER?!" Robotnik exclaims as he kicks the door down, jarring loose just a tad more than he expected. His eyes widen (just a tad) more as he stiffly advances the stall door.

The slam of the door behind him, rattling the frame is almost as jarring as the shattered toilet in front of him.

Robotnik wonders to himself how the fuck that happened in a fit of rage. When the rage wears off and subsides and also is reduced quite a bit, he thoughtfully questions the chemicals he's been flushing recently. He briefly considers better ways to dispose of toxic waste before his gut growls at him again.

The pipe starts spraying dirty water at him, seemingly randomly before he scampers out of the stall and slams the stall door behind him. He grunts, desperately holding as much back as he possibly can, given certain physical limitations  
You can take that however you'd like. I'm done worrying about the, uh, fourth wall? Huhuhuhuhuh.

Robotnik can't think of another toilet between here and his bathroom, which is a good wait on the elevator and a long walk down a hall.

"Snively," he growls, putting that noodle of his towards blaming something else instead of himself. "You deserve this. Not me. NOT ME!"

The egg-shaped man dashes through the bathroom door and sprints faster than even he could have imagined to Snively's desk, just outside his office.  
He hops up onto the desk, making a 180 degree turn in mid-air and landing in a squatting position on the edge of the desk, cracking wood and pushing the monitor and computer tower over with the sheer force of his sudden impact. In all his excitement, he forgets to drop his trousers before spraying forth a firehose blast of hot diarrhea.

"Yeah, that's it, Snively," Robotnik says, licking his lips. "You clean it up, yeah."

Robotnik's pants are now soaked with his own liquid fecal matter and it takes him a moment to realize this. And that's when his watch chirps with the sound of a notification.

He brings his watch up to his face and pushes a button and speaks into it angrily.

"This better be important, Scratch," Robotnik says. "I'm not in the mood for-"

"Dahhhh... this is GROUNDER, boss. You wanna talk to Scratch?"

"Goddamnit, I wanna know why you're ca-"

"Hey, boss," Scratch says eagerly, as though he's conquered the whole world with his response alone. "Scratch here. What can I do for ya?"

"What the FUCK are you calling me for?!"

"Oh, uh," Scratch says, suddenly unsure of himself. "We found Snively, sir."

"Oh, good! Did you put the plugs to him?! IN him?!"

"Uh, well. No. Not exactly, no."

"Why. Not?"

"Well, uh," Scratch starts, trying his damnedest to replicate a HYOOMAHN coughing sound. "He's, uh. He's dead, sir."

"Dead?"

"Yes sir."

"How?"

"Well, uh. I'm not sure, sir. He's in the lenin closet with his belt around his neck and his dick in his hand. He's all blue and his heart isn't beating. Do you think Sonic could have done this?"

"No," Robotnik says, thoughtfully stroking his epic ginger mustache. "No, it wasn't Sonic. I'm sure it wasn't."

"What do you think it was, boss?" Scratch inquires.

"Doesn't matter."

"Yeah, uh. Ya still want us to put the plugs to him? Uhh... in him?"

"Yeah," Robotnik says, sighing and rubbing his temples. "Make Grounder watch. Make an example out of him, or something."

"But sir, if I'm forcing Grounder to watch, how's he gonna hel-" Scratch starts before Robotnik pushes the button on his watch and silencing the screeching sound of his insubordinate goon's speech for the time being.

"Auto-erotic asphyxia, huh?" Robotnik asks the world around him out loud while carefully easing himself down from the desk and awkwardly trotting back to the safety of his office. "Snively, you sick fuck." 


End file.
